by Maggie Price
“You really don’t need what, Tory?”
“I….” Oh, God. She didn’t need to be thinking about her soon-to-be ex touching her in places that had frozen over during their months apart.
She jerked back. “I don’t need help with my car.”
“Yeah, what the hell was I thinking?”
Watching him, she could feel his withdrawal even before he stepped back.
His mouth thinned. “You’ve always made it clear just how little you need me.” His voice was now about ten degrees colder than the air in the garage.
“Look, I wasn’t trying to make a statement. I just…. Dammit, I don’t need help checking the fluid levels in my car.”
“Or anything else.” He loomed over her, tall and unfathomable, staring at her with those hot blue eyes.
She eased out a breath. He knew about her past. About her mother. Just as she knew all about his. About Patience. He wanted a woman with a fragile side. She wanted a man who didn’t view her take-charge personality as a liability. He had left because he knew their situation was hopeless. Nothing had changed.
Resigned, she laid the wire brush aside. “On the phone, you said you’d found more of Heath’s associates?”
Bran watched her for a long, silent moment, then nodded. “Somewhere along the line in his criminal career, he started a motorcycle club with ties to drug smuggling, pornography and prostitution. The club was called the Crows.”
“Was?”
“It supposedly disbanded.” He pulled an envelope from the inside pocket of his heavy coat. “But plenty of the members still live around here. There’s about twenty names of former Crows on this list. I’ve included copies of mug shots and surveillance photos to go with the names. A couple are relatives of Heath’s, others just running buddies. Three on the list made regular visits to Heath while he was in prison. I put checks by those names.”
“Are the cops watching them all?”
“The ones we can find.”
“Do you know yet who helped Heath kill the corrections cop and escape from the funeral home?”
“No.” He laid the envelope on the workbench. “The vice cops say if any of their snitches know, they’re not talking.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open.”
“I expect to hear from you if you spot any of them.”
“You will. Bran,” she said when he took a step toward the door. “Since you’re here…”
He turned, said nothing.
She met his steady gaze, uneasiness drifting through her. “There’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“The condo I mentioned the other night? The owners called. They need to know if I want to buy it. I do. Their asking price is reasonable and they’re selling a lot of their furniture, which is the type I like. So, if you could sign the divorce papers, I can tell my Realtor to get the ball rolling.”
“What type?”
“What?”
“The furniture you like. What type?”
“Oh.” She knitted her brow. During their short time together they hadn’t gotten around to discussing furniture preferences. Among other things.
“Sleek. Streamlined. Nothing massive.”
He studied her so long she resisted the urge to squirm. “So, if you could sign the papers?”
“I’ll bring them by tonight.” He zipped up his jacket. “You said you’ll be at the downtown library?”
“Starting at seven. I’ll wrap up this case tonight, so I won’t be there more than a couple of hours. Call my cell and I’ll let you know where in the library to meet me.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” she repeated softly. The ache in her throat dropped to her chest and formed a lump of regret as she watched him disappear into the house.
The desire between them was as sizzlingly hot as ever—the little interlude beneath her car’s hood proved that. But nothing between them had changed. They had no common ground upon which to build anything lasting.
With them, it was all about sex.
As good as they’d been together in bed, that simply wasn’t enough.
Chapter 3
“Been a week since Heath escaped,” Nate McCall pointed out that evening. “Any word on the street about him?”
Sitting across the booth from his brother, Bran shoved aside the plate of dinner-special meatloaf and mashed potatoes he’d barely touched. Around them, the small downtown diner was filled to capacity, the air thick with conversation and the warm, spicy smell of home cooking.
“Zilch,” Bran said. “We’ve got a list of Heath’s associates, most of whom were with him in the Crows gang. But still nothing solid on who helped him kill the corrections cop and escape from the funeral home. The lowlifes we’ve rousted claim they haven’t got a clue where Vic is.” He gave his head a frustrated shake. “Bottom line is, we’ve got nothing.”
“The theory that he and his partner headed for Mexico might be on target,” Nate pointed out. Like Bran, the middle McCall son had inherited their father’s tall, rangy build and wide shoulders. In contrast to Bran’s lighter coloring, Nate had the olive skin, black hair and chocolate-brown eyes prevalent on their mother’s side of the family. Presently on duty and working out of OCPD Homicide, Nate wore a black suit, crisp white shirt and crimson tie. Beside his empty plate, his handheld radio broadcast the usual muted chatter between cops and dispatchers.
“Heath isn’t in Mexico,” Bran said. “He’s here. Close.”
Nate studied his brother over the rim of his coffee mug. “What makes you so sure? None of the cops involved in the credit-union shootout have gotten so much as a hang-up phone call.” Nate’s eyes narrowed. “Unless you have and haven’t told me. If that’s the case, you and I need to step out in the alley so I can beat some sense into you.”
“You’re welcome to try, bro,” Bran drawled as he rolled his right shoulder in an attempt to ease the ache out of it. “I haven’t heard from Heath. But I can feel the bastard, Nate. He’s burrowed underground somewhere close. Waiting.”
Nate set his mug aside. “I’d be the last person to slam cop instinct, since mine has saved my butt a few times. I just hope yours is sending a faulty message in this case.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
Bran shoved back the cuff of his sweater and checked his watch. It was nearly eight. He’d gone to his apartment when he got off work, changed out of his uniform, then settled in front of the TV. Soon, his attention veered to the well-worn furniture that had come with the apartment. It ate at him that until that morning he’d had no clue what style of furniture Tory preferred. He’d never even asked. His mind had soon shifted to wondering what else he hadn’t bothered finding out about the smart, stubborn, sexy woman he’d married in a fever. The woman from whom he’d wanted intimacy both in and out of bed. With those thoughts weighing on him like lead he’d called Nate and arranged a dinner meeting. He’d chosen the diner because it was a short drive to the library learning center where Tory was working surveillance.
“Nate, thanks for meeting me, but I need to take off. I have to go by the library.”
Nate angled his chin. “What’s there?”
“Books,” Bran said dryly. “And Tory. She’s working a surveillance.”
Nate snatched up the check and pulled a couple of bills out of his pocket. “So, since you know where she is, you guys must be talking again.” He held up a hand when Bran started to protest his paying the tab. “You buy next time. This is good, right? You seeing Tory?”
“Depends on a person’s point of view. I’ve got the papers she served me in my parka. I’m supposed to sign them and give them to her tonight.”
“Supposed to?” The trained interrogator in Nate pounced on the words. “Since you haven’t signed them, does that mean you’re having second thoughts about the breakup?”
“No, Sherlock. It means I didn’t have a pen handy.”
Nate’s dark brows drew together. “Dammit, Bran, you and Tory haven’t even mad
e it to the one-year mark. Are you positive you can’t work out your problems?”
“No hope there, bro.” Especially not since their problems came down to different inherent needs, Bran added silently. He wanted a woman to turn to him, lean on him. Tory had shown him time and again she was too take-charge to do that. Her getting miffed that morning when he’d tried to help check under her car’s hood proved she hadn’t lightened up.
It had also proven a few other things.
Namely, the hunger he felt for her was as sharp as it had been from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. He hadn’t had to kiss her today to know what she tasted like—he carried her taste inside him. Still, he had damn well wanted his mouth on hers again. On a lot more places than just her mouth.
Picturing her leaning near him under the car’s hood, he had to grit his teeth against the instant tightening in his gut. With their mouths nearly brushing, he had watched her face flush. Saw her green eyes go smoky. Her response during those heat-driven moments had told him her desire equaled his. The white-hot chemistry that had brought them together—and fueled their elopement—was still a churning eddy inside them both. That he’d wanted to dive back into the eddy told him his defenses were not as impenetrable as he’d thought.
That little slice of reality had convinced him it was best to let her go before they tangled themselves up again. He would sign the papers tonight. Then Tory could get on with her own life and he could regain his balance in his.
Nate leaned in. “Look, everyone in the family has been walking on eggshells over the subject of you and Tory. Since you brought it up, I figure that opens the door to me asking you a question.”
“Which is?”
“What the hell is the deal?”
“What deal?”
“Why did you walk out? And don’t tell me you don’t care about her. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”
Bran had no intention of examining emotions he’d clamped a lid on months ago. “We have certain issues.”
“There’s headline news,” Nate said drolly. “You don’t want to tell me, fine. But you know how good Grace is at zeroing in on relationship stuff, and more than once she’s said—”
“Wait a minute. Have you and Grace been having regular conversations about Tory and me?”
“I wouldn’t call them regular,” Nate said with a shrug.
“What the hell do you call them?”
“Occasional. And we’re not the only ones who’ve been talking. The sisters had a big powwow at Mom and Dad’s. Josh was in on it, too.”
Bran’s eyes slitted. “Little brother sat in on a gossip session about my marriage?”
“To be fair, he was there because he heard Mom was making spaghetti. So he just got dragged into the discussion.”
“Well, great.” Bran jabbed an index finger in Nate’s direction. “How would you like it if the sisters had powwows about your relationships?”
Grinning, Nate winked at a petite, blond waitress who zipped by with a tray loaded with food. “I don’t have relationships, remember? I have encounters. Anyway, Grace thinks you walked because Tory’s so independent. I figure the big problem you’ve got is that she’s so different from Patience.”
Bran’s jaw set. “You don’t think I knew that when I married Tory?”
“Maybe you thought you did. But for a guy used to being totally in charge and calling all the shots, I suspect you didn’t know what hit you.”
Bran’s teeth threatened to grind together. Only to himself would he admit that Nate was right—not until after he and Tory eloped and the sexual haze began to lift had he seen the immense contrast between his late wife and his present one. And he’d also understood that a gap the size of the Grand Canyon separated his and Tory’s basic needs.
Because the idea of pounding on his brother sounded like a good way to work off his frustration, he aimed a feral smile across the booth. “Speaking of getting hit, I’m ready to adjourn to the alley.”
Just then, Nate’s radio crackled to life. A patrol cop’s disembodied voice notified dispatch of a Signal Seven at an address across town. Dead body, Bran’s cop brain automatically translated.
“You’ll have to give me a rain check on the alley,” Nate said, scooping up the radio.
“Too bad,” Bran muttered while Nate advised dispatch that Homicide was en route to the scene. “I suppose everybody will get together for another damn powwow after the divorce is final,” Bran said as he and Nate rose in unison and pulled on their coats.
Nate slapped his shoulder. “Knowing our sisters, it’s inevitable.”
“Yeah.”
The instant they stepped out into the brutally cold night, Bran’s cell phone rang. He snagged it off the waistband of his slacks, flipped it open and frowned when it continued to ring. It took him a second to realize Nate’s cell also had an incoming call.
“McCall,” Bran said into his phone. He and Nate turned slightly away so they could each hear their respective callers.
“This is Captain Everett,” Bran’s boss said, his voice booming.
“Yes, sir—”
“A black and white is at your wife’s house. She’s not home. Do you know where she is?”
Bran froze. “Yes. Why?”
“Garcia’s husband was murdered. Shot.”
Bran’s pulse kicked. Susan Garcia was one of the patrol cops involved in the credit-union shootout. Shifting, he glanced at Nate, saw his brother’s grim expression as he listened to whoever was on the other end of his call. Bran figured Garcia’s husband was the victim at the scene Nate had just been called to.
“What happened?” Bran asked.
“Miguel Garcia sold high-dollar cars,” Everett began. “A guy came into the dealership late this afternoon asking for him and requesting to test drive a Jaguar. Garcia went with him, but never came back. His boss went out looking for him. He just now found Garcia, dead in the Jag.”
Bran swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. “Anybody get a look at the customer?”
“We’ve got a vague description. Could be Heath. Could be a lot of guys.”
“Tory’s at the downtown library. I’m less than five minutes away.”
“Get there fast, McCall. Zelewski’s wife is also missing.”
Zelewski. Bran pictured the patrol cop who’d arrived at the credit union a minute behind him. “His wife sells real estate, right?”
“Yes. We’ve got cops checking all her listings now. Let me know when you locate your wife,” Everett said, then ended the call.
“Looks like Heath hit Garcia’s husband.” Bran barked the words at Nate while punching in Tory’s cell number. “Maybe Zelewski’s wife, too.”
“Going after cops’ families,” Nate added as he and Bran dashed to the diner’s parking lot. “You said Tory’s at the library. Do you know where at the library?”
“No, but I’m damn sure going to find her.”
“We’ll find her.” Nate held up his keys to indicate he would drive. “My partner can get started working the homicide scene.”
Bran climbed into Nate’s car while he listened to Tory’s cell phone ring. Closing his eyes, he sent up a silent prayer that he wasn’t too late.
Her miniature camera tucked back inside her leather tote bag, Tory slipped out of the library learning center into the freezing night. As surveillance jobs went, this one had been a cinch. A professor’s wife suspected her husband was spending his evenings at the library working on more than just a research paper. The wife was right. Over the past four nights, Tory had witnessed the professor and a nubile grad student disappear into a series of cozy study rooms. It was unfortunate for the professor—and a plus for Tory—that the doors on the rooms were equipped with grates through which the small lens of her camera fit.
It was another plus that Oklahoma City’s new downtown library learning center had an espresso bar.
Taking a sip of the steaming mocha café latte she’d purchased on her way out, s
he headed for her car. To avoid snagging the prof’s attention, she had parked in a different area of the parking lot during each of her visits. Tonight, the biting wind had her wishing she’d found a spot that didn’t require a hike to get there.
By the time she unlocked the Taurus’s door, her nose and cheeks stung from the cold. Not to mention her fingers, since she’d forgotten to snag her leather gloves off the kitchen counter.
Tossing her tote bag onto the passenger seat, she slid behind the wheel. She nearly fumbled her latte when the cell phone she’d switched to silent mode began vibrating like a big insect against her waist.
She pulled the phone off her belt and slid it into the converter installed in the dash so she could converse hands-free. She answered, blinking when Bran shouted, “You still at the library?”
“Yes, in the parking—”
The word ended in a choked scream when something metallic dropped past her face and jerked back against her throat. Before she could react, the cold metal yanked tighter. The bright shock of pain blinded her.
The cup dropped to her lap, spilling steaming coffee across her jeaned thighs.
Choking, gagging, she clawed at the metal while fear stormed through her. Chain her mind registered at the same instant a second loop dropped over her head and circled her neck.
Hysteria bubbled in her blood. She used her feet to push herself up in the seat, trying to ease the pressure on her windpipe. As she dug at the chain her fingernails carved furrows into her throat. Fisting one hand, she swung behind her in a futile attempt to knock her assailant back.
“Bitch, this is from Vic,” a man’s voice hissed near her ear. “Gonna eat your old man’s heart out,” he added before giving the chain a vicious jerk.
Fire roared through her lungs. Her brain begging for air, she fought to remain conscious. Weapon, her senses screamed. Her Sig was in her tote on the passenger seat, far out of reach.
Darkness loomed at the edges of her vision, a tunnel narrowing. Her hand groped for the console. Her flailing fingertips brushed its lever. The chain tightened. She leaned, straining for the lever, increasing the pressure on her neck. Unconsciousness closed in. When she hit the lever the console’s lid sprang open. Her hand came up, gripping the emergency rescue hammer she habitually kept there.